


Dragons do not forgive and they do not forget

by iia_ao3ac



Series: We are dragons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: As it is poisonous tragedy--too many screw-ups, Bran's POV, Brynden Rivers (Bloodraven) POV, Brynden Rivers' (Bloodraven') aka Three-Eyed Raven in the show POV, Drogon's POV, F/M, Gang-rape mentioned, If they wanted anyone of the Starks to live beyond the finale they shouldn't have left Drogon alive, Logical continuation of the awful season 8 finale, Long live Drogon, Maester Wolkan's POV, Not for Stark-fans, POV Jon Snow, POV Tyrion Lannister, Prologue to the time-travel restart, Quaithe is Shiera Seastar, Rape/Non-con Elements, This time-line there are no happy endings, explanation for the end of House Targaryen, gruesome details, past rape mentioned, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iia_ao3ac/pseuds/iia_ao3ac
Summary: Logical continuation of the awful and illogical Game of Thrones finale. If they wanted anyone of the Starks to live beyond a few months they shoudn't have left Drogon alive.This is my attempt to find some explanation of the end of House Targaryen, and add some modicum of logic to the stupid show arc. For me, the only explanation of that poisonous arc is malice. In this story, it is Bloodraven who is maliciously destroying the characters. I also choose to take it as an allegory of the Douches destroying the characters in the show.This is also the last time I would be concerned with the show. From now on, only book characters. The show is but ashes to me now. In the immortal words: shadows and dust.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a way for me to vent on the horrible logic-destroying Season 8. As some of you know, I have cancer and my initial diagnosis was three months. One of the things I was regretting back then was that I wouldn't be able to see the end of Game of Thrones, let alone ASOIAF. When my diagnosis was changed, and I had the prospect of more time in front of me, I fought and I looked forward to be able to see the end, an end I hoped that would do some justice to the story and the characters we had followed for so many years. Much like it should have been with Cersei (but was not), it all turned to ashes in my mouth. I lived to see the end of Game of Thrones, but this end was so poisonous as to make me regret I lived to see it. 
> 
> This end is so bad, that I am totally refusing to accept it. Regardless if it is GRRM's planned end, or just Dumb dickhead and Dumber dickhead's end. Even if it is GRRM's end it doesn't mean it is good, even if he would have written it with more detail and more time, and the plot would be fleshed out. Maybe it would be a fitting end to a tragedy, but I signed out for a "bittersweet" end, as in Lord of the Rings. How many times did we hear that from GRRM?
> 
> So this story is a logical continuation of the god-awful finale. A warning that it is very dark, and quite gruesome. But they asked for it. 
> 
> I am using some direct text from ADWD incorporated into the story text, hope you will recognize it. I am not using citations, as it would detract.

_“Who can know the heart of a dragon?”_

_“We shall not pretend to any understanding of the bond between dragon and dragonrider; wiser heads have pondered that mystery for centuries. “_

 Gyldayn

 

_“If dragons are not killed, the span of their years far exceeds that of mortal men.  It is said that dragons do not answer to Gods, nor men, except for the rider.   If a dragon has bonded with a rider, they can take traits of their rider’s personality. It is known that dragons can stay their fire if their rider wishes it.  The bond is strong, based on blood and magic, and it binds the dragon and the rider till one or the other dies. If the rider dies, the dragon will avenge the rider, even at the risk of their own death.  With fire and blood._

_Dragons can be cruel. And they can be patient. They can burn you in a breath of the hottest fire, incinerating you to ashes before you even feel the heat. Or they can torch the hair off your head and melt the skin off your limbs and leave you to die slowly and in pain. They can tear you apart with their razor sharp teeth and even eat you, though not for the taste of human flesh.  Dragons are vindictive. And they do not forgive.”_

 Unknown writer.

 

_“Dragons are intelligent, more intelligent than men according to some Maesters. They have affection for their friends and fury for their enemies”_

 Tyrion Lannister.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Drogon had been spotted recently coming back from the east, flying west, and then heading over the seas off the western coast.  Nobody could follow him there, not even whispers. Except himself.  And so King Bran took to a flock of ravens to follow him and see with his own eyes.  Because it is said that dragons do not forgive, and they do not forget.  And that worried him.

 _______________________________________________________

 

_Dragons are not slaves. Drogon’s POV, West of Westeros_

 

His goal was in sight. The ship was visible in the distance. But he wanted to see her before he destroyed it. Her death was to be quick. He could have even spared her, if mother was alive. Mother had not wanted them hurt, the family of his brother’s rider and their people. He hadn’t minded sparing her then, he could sense if things went differently she could have been one of the few humans he tolerated to get close. But mother was dead now, and they were the ones that had helped in her murder. Pain. The fire and the rage couldn’t quench it. It would always be there. But they were going to feel it too.

 

He was close, close enough to see people gathering below on the ship and hear their shouts. Close enough to see her, _his_ family, his sister. The family he himself no longer had. His own brothers and his mother were gone. They took them from him, and left only the pain where their bond was torn. But they were going to pay. All that were responsible for hurting them were going to pay. Everyone who dared take his blood kin from him was going to pay. The betrayers were going to pay. With their  life and with their pain.

 

He could see her looking at him, and then her gaze went to the small flock of birds flying near. He could sense it then, another being trying to connect to him.  This being was more powerful, his mind and will stronger than the other humans he had encountered. He could feel the other’s consciousness,  vast and cold as ice. He could feel it reaching to take over, push. Weak. It tried again, and one more time. And then he could sense its cold fear and defeat as the creature’s mind shrieked in pain. The birds answered with a pained caw. He turned his gaze back to her,  his sister. The friend that could have been, who became an enemy.  He could sense no fear in her, just acceptance.  Her death was quick as he belched hot fire and shriveled her to ash before directing more fire to the ship.

 

**The pain and the loss was still there. The rage ever present. But the skies are mine. And vengeance is mine.**

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

_King Bran’s POV, Kings Landing  
_

 

I burned. The fire had been inside him, consuming him. And the pain ...

He still felt the pain from when the mind of Drogon expelled him. He had never encountered a mind so vast and so unknowable. Wholly alien. It felt like pushing against a searing hot wall of fire. But still it had not been so agonizing as the fire in his guts, crackling along his wings, devouring him. When he tried to fly from it, his terror fanned the flames and made them burn hotter. One moment he had been soaring above the see, his crows’ eyes marking the movements of Arya and the men on the ship below. Then the flames had turned his heart into a blackened cinder and sent his spirit screaming back into his own skin. 

Arya was dead. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he could remember the pain of Bran the boy, crying for his lost sister. Bran the King had lost that ability.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

_Maester Wolkan’s POV, Winterfell_

 

They had received the raven sent from King Bran that the Queen’s sister, Arya, was dead, killed by Drogon. The scroll had been short, informing them that her ship was burned off the west coast of Westeros, with Lady Arya on it. He wondered for a moment how King Bran knew, but then King Bran had known many things he had no human way of knowing. They said King Bran could slip into the minds of crows and spy from above, though he himself still couldn’t quite believe that. But the North followed the Old Gods, and no matter how many years he had spent in the North, he would never understand them and  their ways.

 

The scroll didn’t mention that they needed to prepare and defend Winterfell, because what could they do anyway? Drogon was now a grown dragon, and even the monstrous large ballistas Queen Cersei’s devious Hand had devised did not stop him. He knew what the maesters said about a grown dragon’s hide, that bolts couldn’t pierce it. He had read about Meraxes, how the Dornish had brought him down with a lucky shot through the eye. The Dornish then tried to bring the other dragons, Vhagar and Balerion, with scores of ballista shots, but the bolts had just glanced  off their hard scales. What can anyone do against a grown dragon? What can one do against Balerion the Dread come again, without even a rider to stop him?

 

He wondered if the dragon would come straight for Winterfell. Maybe he can advise Queen Sansa that she better abandon Winterfell and go into hiding, the way the Dornish did, long ago.  Though who can outrun a dragon? Would they even have time to start? The dragon was last seen off the west coast of Westeros, he would be closer to Winterfell than to Kings Landing. A dragon can outfly a crow. How much time did they have?  Fear gripped him and shook his limbs. Fire is a terrible way to die.  He wanted to run, to escape. His duty was to Winterfell, whoever was its Lord or Lady, but when the dragon came, there would be no Winterfell anyway. Part of him tried to hold on to the hope that Drogon will leave them be--- the dragon had been in Winterfell before, and he didn’t harm anybody. Perhaps he would spare them again.    But then his mind whispered back—remember the Dragon Queen, she was the one the dragons followed.  She was the one who stayed their fire from harming the living, and directed it against the dead. She protected the North and the living and we repaid her with ingratitude and then betrayal. He didn’t know exactly what went between the Starks and the Dragon Queen, but he had heard that it was Lady Sansa that started the chain of treachery that brought the Dragon Queen to her madness and death. He could see from the first moment when the Dragon Queen came North that Lady Sansa hated her. If he could see that, he was afraid the dragons could too. And they said that dragons have long memories. The fear gripped him again. He decided that he would advise Lady Sansa to evacuate the people of Winterfell, so that perhaps some may be spared. There was nothing else they could do.

 

 

It was a day later we were barely in sight of Winterfell,   heading Northwest to the mountains.  I and the household were following on foot,  behind Queen Sansa on a white-gray horse with her Queensguard surrounding her, when we heard the crackle in the winds followed by a deafening roar. The horses panicked, despite the knights trying to reign them in. When the great shadow fell,  the panic was unstoppable. My limbs gave out and I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t’ even scream, or maybe the piercing cries mixing with the deafening thump-thump-thump in my ears were my own.  The white-gray horse of the Queen reared and she fell,  the horse falling on top of her.  The great black beast landed across the field from the Queen and a great stream of fire came and enveloped the  Queensguard and their horses. I watched in horror as the Queen’s hair and clothes caught on fire, and the   skin of the right side of her face and body burned off.  I didn’t think my ears could hear anything more, but the shrill cries of pain of the Queen, her horse and the Queensguard  pierced through. I will forever hear them in my nightmares. I watched in horror as the Queensguard knights stopped moving,  one by one, their cries and that of the horses dying off. The great beast then made a step forward, a thundering tremor that brought me to the ground, my  legs giving out under me. The dragon stopped and lowered his giant head towards the Queen and her horse that was no longer white-gray. He turned his head and looked at me, and his red eyes held mine while he bared his teeth. It is as if I  knew what he was  saying: “Watch”. And I did. I watched as the great dragon brought his maw and tore a great chunk of the horse. Queen Sansa, if that blistered raw thing that was trapped under the horse was still her, whimpered, whether from pain or from fear, I didn’t know. The dragon swallowed another chunk of the horse. He didn’t eat the Queen though. He looked at her, bared his teeth, bloody with the pieces of meat and bone from the horse and with a great beat of his wings took off towards Winterfell.

 

 

The Queen in the North was three days dying.

 

The snow melting into sleet had quenched the worst of the fires, but Winterfell was a smoldering ruin with wisps of smoke still rising from the piles of rubble. They had laid the Queen in the crypts, where they cleaned what space they could from the fallen rubble. There were not many men and women of them left. On his way to Winterfell Drogon had laid waste to everything and everyone on his path, and the great lane he burned with his fire could be seen from Winterfell to the horizon. He was tending to the Queen himself, as the sight of the burns was too much for even the most toughened northerner. So much of the Queen’s flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. Her eyes were pools of pus. He had tried easing the pain with milk of the poppy, however much he could press into her lipless mouth, but that hadn’t been much. It would have been kinder if the dragon had devoured her. That at least would have been quick. This was a hideous way to die. He knew then that the dragon did it by choice, its great maw almost smiling before taking off to destroy Winterfell, the rest of the Starks and their legacy.

 

.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logical continuation of the god-awful season 7 and 8. The characters used are the fake ones from the season 8 (i.e., simpleton-Dany going Mad, moron-Jon betraying her while mumbling "muh queen", etc).
> 
> Hence, since it is a logical continuation of the idiocy that was the finale, it is a poisonous tragedy. There are no resurrections in this fic. Nobody has a happy ending, nobody at all that we know of. This chapter is supposed to serve as an explanation to the tragedy. It is very dark.
> 
> Chapter 2 starts after Drogon razed Winterfell and Sansa died in three-day pain, which Bloodraven, aka Three-Eyed Raven in the show (and Bran in the recesses of his mind) witness by crow eyes. It is Blloodraven's POV, aka Three-Eyed Raven in the show, and it is in the "present", not the past.
> 
> Thank you so much to PriestessofGroove for betaing! But since I am not a native English speaker, even she probably couldn't clean all my mistakes. The mistakes are all mine!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise here is: when he died, Bloodraven, aka Three-Eyed Raven in the show, warged into Bran. We know from canon wargs, that when they die they usually warg into animals. But Bloodraven is the most powerful greenseer, and so he could warg into Bran, who is also a greenseer. As we also know from canon that when warging, you can feel whoever mind was there first, in the recesses of your own mind. Bloodraven is the overwhelmingly dominant mind, but Bran is still present in the recesses.
> 
>    
> Just to clarify, cause I realized the stupid show didn't even mention that the original Three Eyed Raven in the show has a name actually in the books, and it is Brynden Rivers aka Bloodraven.   
> So Brynden Rivers aka Bloodraven is the Three Eyed Raven, and it is his POV.   
> ______________________________
> 
>  

_“The direwolves will outlast us all, but their time will come as well. In the world that men have made, there is no room for them, or us.”_

 

Leaf.

 

_“Men would not be sad. Men would be wroth.  Men would hate and swear a bloody vengeance.”_

 

Bran the boy.

 

_________________________________

 

 

Stop crying, boy!  I know what it is to see your brother dead. I know it hurts. That is what love is—weakness, malaise, death. It will never keep you alive. They are dead, you can’t change it. It has come to pass, the ink is dry. At least they were felled by their enemy.  There is comfort in that. There is no death worse than the one delivered by betrayal. You die twice that way. And there is no betrayal worse than the one dealt by those closest to you, those you gave your life’s blood to protect.

 

They say that bastards are born treacherous, because they are born of deceit.  That they covet what their true-born brothers have, and are not satisfied until they see their true-born brothers betrayed and supplanted. 

 

I was born a bastard, one of the Great Bastards. A bastard marked by the Gods. They said the Mother marked me, but it was the Old Gods that did it. They marked what I was to become.

 

When my bastard  half-brother raised a rebellion against the crown and my true-born brother Daeron, I stayed loyal to my true-born brother.  Because I loved him. For loyalty. I became a kinslayer, because I loved my brother. For loyalty.

 

A sorcerer, people whispered. Packs of gaunt grey wolves hunt down his foes, men said, and carrion crows spy for him and whisper secrets in his ears.  A treacherous bastard. Accursed kinslayer. They blamed me for the drought, and they blamed me for the Spring Sickness that took my brother. The true-born brother that I loved.

 

But I stayed loyal to the Targaryen rule. I saved their cursed rule, again and again. For the love I once bore for my dead brother. For loyalty. I sacrificed the last bit of my honor for them, and for loyalty.

 

And as they deemed I was no longer needed I was sentenced to death as a reward.  My old self died that day. Do you know what killed it, boy?  Loyalty!

 

But they made one mistake, they showed mercy. Or pity. It doesn’t matter now. They allowed me to take the Black and sent me to the Wall. I swore off my dragon blood that day, and I swore that the dragons will pay.  The Old Gods helped me stay alive because they had a purpose for me, but I had my own purpose too.

 

Do you know what kept me alive all these countless years? Hate.

 

 **Hate.** It can keep you alive longer than anything else. And there is no hate stronger than the hate born of betrayal. Keep it focused, keep it cold. Keep it close. Always remember, never forget.

 

It took time, to learn how to whisper in their dreams and to haunt them in their waking hours. But then it was so easy. So unbelievably easy. Like pushing a boulder from a top of a hill.   I just had to have patience. The patience to bide my time, and the foresight to pick the exact moment and the precise direction to push. To use their strength against them. To use the good and twist it. To stomp while they are weak. To inflame the fire when it would immolate them first.

 

Do you know what the hardest part was, boy? Waiting for you to get here. But in the end, the Gods needed you for their own purposes as much as I did. So here we are. 

 

But the rest was easy.

 

It was easy to whisper to Egg, the champion of the smallfolk, that dragons were the only way to subdue the lords and force them to accept his decrees.  After all, which Targaryen has not dreamed of dragons?  That Aegon had to be the one to light the grand fire to hatch the eggs, it seemed only natural then, I didn’t have to do much. I watched him burn. And after that his legacy. Tywin Lannister saw to that.

 

By then the House Targaryen was almost done for. I didn’t even have to do anything to tie the only two remaining Targaryens who could continue the name into a marriage that would doom them both. After all, the Gods needed their Prince. Jaehaerys the Second wasn’t to know that the Prince That Was Promised may be prophesied to bring the Dawn, but that Dawn would not be a new Dawn for House Targaryen. It would be its Fall.

 

The Mad King Aerys was easy, the broken always are.  “Burn them all”, we screamed together. 

 

Even Rhaegar, the Last Dragon, couldn’t stop the boulder falling after that. Not with Varys conspiring against him. The Gods needed their Prince to fight the Darkness, but all the people who fell along the way were none of their concern. In a battle between  Gods men are just fodder. Hundreds of thousands died in the war that birthed the Prince. And the Targaryens were down to two.

 

I will admit, boy, I made a mistake then. An understandable mistake, since Viserys and his sister had passed out of my vision to Essos. I forgot that often the female dragons were the larger and the fiercer. Like Vhagar. But who would have expected Daenerys to survive? Let alone succeed in what so many Targaryens died trying to achieve-- give birth to dragons again?

 

It is said that dragons are the grief and the glory of House Targaryen. And even I will admit the wonder I felt at seeing them fly again for the first time, their mighty wings blotting the sky.

 

It was the first time that I had doubt. The past is written, the ink is dry, but the future could perhaps be changed. We see only glimpses, even us greenseers. And I could not help but wonder.  There were three dragons and two Targaryens. But I too had dragon blood in my veins. It is said that dragons answer neither to Gods nor men, but they may heed the call of their own blood.

 

Was there a future where the three dragons heralded a new Dawn for  House Targaryen?  What would I choose?   Do I join the Targaryens  and help them rise again, and reclaim my Valyrian heritage? But in the end that was not something I could do. I had come too far to turn back from my path. I was too close to my goal to give it up now, even for the dream of dragons.

 

Maybe it was the wrong choice then.  For it seems that the blood of the First Men can not conquer a dragon. 

 

And I was too fascinated with the boy, your cousin Jon, your half-brother for all that matters. He reminded me so much of … me. Growing up a bastard who loved his true-born brothers, and who lived for loyalty and honor. With the blood of the first men strong in his veins.  But the blood of the Targaryens was there too. The last heir to the Iron Throne and to the Targaryen name. And the blood will out.

 

He started so much like my own self. It would be ironic, wouldn’t it, if he would end up too so much like my own self---a Kinslayer and an Oathbreaker?  Taking the Black after his own family used him and abandoned him when they no longer needed him?

 

Could he have avoided that fate? Perhaps. Perhaps if he was left on his own he could have turned back from that path many times. But I made sure he stayed on it.

 

It was easy to set young cowardly Sam to telling Jon about his heritage at the worst possible time. And in the worst possible way. In his anger against Daenerys I knew Sam would tell Jon that he is the “worthy” heir, and she only a cruel pretender.  And so turn the secret of  the mother Jon so much wanted to know and love,  and to know that she loved him,  to  drive a wedge between Jon and the woman he loved, and who loved him in return. One can always depend on the self-blindness of cowards who need other people to fight their battles.

 

It was almost amusing to watch it unfold. “He is the heir to the Iron Throne” I said. Only a simpleton would believe that this was what mattered at that moment, if at all. Robert Baratheon had taken the Throne from the Targaryens in a bloody Rebellion. With my help in providing plenty of sparks for that Rebellion, I might add. Cersei sat on the Throne. Did they think that if they announced proudly “He is the heir to the Iron Throne” that would make her move for him? And not stomp out of existence the son of Lyanna Stark who she hated?

 

Don’t make me laugh, boy. Without Daenerys’ forces claiming the Iron Throne, it would have remained Cersei on the throne. Your sisters wouldn’t have done anything, even if they had wanted to.  Maybe  Arya  could have killed Cersei. But that wouldn’t have stopped Cersei’s armies from razing the entire North’s forces. The Golden Company commanders would have claimed lordships in the Riverlands. And then it would be endless war for who was to be on top, and trust me boy, it wouldn’t have been Sansa, even if she married you cousin from the Vale for their knights. The winter would have stopped the Lannister armies and the Golden Company from going North, but the North was going to starve anyway, not that there is anything left to stop that now. There is no Aegon the benevolent to send food North, I took care of that. The Winged Shadow torched the last of the food stores.  And Sansa made her independence bed, her people will now starve in it.

 

It was not me who doomed your sister, boy! Jealousy and lust for power doomed your sister. Ingratitude doomed your sister. She chose her own path. I would not have hesitated to stomp House Stark into the ground if it suited my purpose, but you have done that yourselves.

 

You know, if your sisters had any thought between them at all, they would have supported Daenerys. The North could only have gained from it. Take it from someone who was Hand of the King for more than 20 years.  It would have been harder then for me. I would have found a way, but it would have been harder and it would have taken longer. And perhaps your sisters would have lived.

 

Do you know why I granted your grasping sister the North’s independence, boy? It was not to indulge her dream to be a Queen and have others kneel to her.  A dream for which she betrayed her own father, as you well know it. After all, for all the North knows, I am the only living son of Ned Stark, they would have knelt to me as they did to him.

 

What is the greatest legacy of House Targaryen, boy?  You are not as stupid as you feel sometimes. Yes, a united Seven Kingdoms is the legacy of House Targaryen. Ruled by House Targaryen. That is no more. There are no more united Seven Kingdoms.

 

You’ve seen as well as I do that Dorne does not intend to stay in the fold. They didn’t even send a real Prince of House Martell, because they were afraid we would kill him. Like the Mountain killed Oberyn Martell, and Elia Martell before him.  Who would have known the Martell Prince anyway, they rightfully thought. They sent this false Martell  because they wanted to gauge the power of Kings Landing to enforce the new rule. That power as you well know is nonexistent. We may know what they are planning, but we have no way of stopping it.

 

The Ironborn would have bowed to the dragons, but there is nothing to stop their reaving and raiding now.

 

The Reach will only stay because they plan to rule the Seven Kingdoms. How long do you think the benevolence of the new Master of Coin will last in providing food and money to the crown, before figuring out that he can be the crown, not just the Master of Coin?

 

The once united Seven Kingdoms will go back to the petty wars between the numerous newly made Kings and Queens. The way it was before the Targaryens step foot on Westeros. It would be as if they have never been here.

 

Because human nature is what it is. One can always count on it. One way or the other. There is one thing that is constant: the strong survive, and the weak die.

 

Do you know what is the greatest weakness of men? Love. I know it for myself. Love for your family, love for a woman. I loved a woman once, aye, boy. I understand. Jon Snow didn’t. “Love is the death of duty”, my grandnephew Aemon told him once. That, Jon Snow remembered. But he forgot the more important lesson Aemon told him: “What is honor compared to a woman’s love?” So determined was he to uphold his Stark “honor”, that he betrayed the woman he loved, the only woman who truly loved him. For  “honor” he turned  his back on her,  even after she saved his life not once, but three times, at great cost to herself. Even his “father”, the “honorable” Ned Stark who he was striving to follow,  made a better choice.  Once, my old self would have pitied Jon Snow, and the path he chose. But now that path was made to serve my purpose, and I have no pity left.

 

Betrayed love is like an open wound, boy, did you know that? Any push against it causes a reaction. And if it is exposed, and left uncleaned, it can fester, even turn to black rot to eat you alive.  

 

There is no pain like the one delivered by twisting a knife in a festered wound.  The pain blinds you senseless.  And then it is easy to rain blow, by blow, by blow, until even the strongest fall to their knees.

 

I didn’t even have to do much any longer, Daenerys had enough enemies posing as friends surrounding her to bring her to her knees. I just had to leave her to them. And then strike when all her defenses were down.

 

Yes, I burned her mind, as Varys poisoned her body. She couldn’t push me out completely any longer. Her mind was in the shadow lands, struggling between times and places, in the  Dothraki grass fields one minute, fighting the Lannister army the next, or back in her childhood.

 

Maybe I am a monster, but so are you, boy! How long did Hodor hold the door for you while the dead gnawed at him? And we both know it, it was you who burned his mind, not me. Hodor was your friend, Daenerys was my enemy. Who is the monster then, boy?

 

Hodor was paying, all his life,  for your mistakes.  Daenerys was paying for the mistakes of House Targaryen. And in the end, it was the Last Targaryen that killed her. While swearing loyalty, with a kiss to hide his cowardice to look her in the eye while delivering the killing blow.  The final killing blow to House Targaryen.

 

We both know Drogon is coming.  We can’t stop him. But that doesn’t matter.

 

Our flesh will die and we will return to the ravens, and the trees, and their roots. There will never be a Greenseer again, we were the last. All men must die. But before my death I saw the ruin of House Targaryen. House Targaryen is no more. Their legacy gone. A dead House forever known for Madmen, Kinslayers and Oathbreakers. Accursed for all eternity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two clarifications:  
> 1\. I have been asked didn't Bloodraven know that Drogon will raze all the people who harmed Daenerys (and more) after she died. He did, because he could go back to the past and he knew what dragons are like. The thing though is that he had to risk it. What do I mean by that: Bloodraven needed Kings Landing taken. That could only be done by Dany and aDrogon. So he needed Drogon till the end, and he needed Dany's control on him till she dies. He was thinking that since he has both Valyrian and First Men's blood, he would be able to warg into Drogon. Even he knew that would be hard, if possible at all, because there is a scene in the books that says when fist warged, a creature rebells, bucks the rider like a horse. So Bloodraven left it till after Dany died. The thing is it didn't work, as was shown in the previous chapter. But he couldn't have known that it wouldn't work, because there were no people like him, with mixed valyrian and First Men's blood back when the dragons first came to Westeros. So Bloodraven is tied up in his own mistake--he needed Drogon till the end, but then he couldn't control him after. 
> 
> the thing is, Bloodraven would have risked his death, and that of the whole Westeros if needed, if he knew that House Targaryen and it legacy!!! will be brought down and die with him. So he risked it, and lost his life. But achieved his goal. House Targaryen is no more, and its legacy is dead.
> 
> 2\. I used canon history (books, not show of course, there is nothing in the show since they dumbed it down to moron levels). All the mentions: Daeron, Bloodraven being Kinslayer by killing Daemon, Blloodraven as Hand of the King for more than 20 years, the Spring Plague, etc, are from the books.


	3. Chapter 3: Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion learns some truths, about himself and other things.  
> What a human can do to destroy a person no dragon can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Crimson_Guard. 
> 
> My apologies for the long time elapsed between updates. I, unfortunately, am having a very unpredictable time. What's with my health, and my latest travels to see my relatives around the world, which doesn't help my health much either. 
> 
> My apologies especially to Crimson_Guard, to whom I (not intentionally) lied by saying I would update within a couple of days, but instead took more than a couple of weeks. Also, as this chapter turned out longer than I planned, I moved Jon's POV entirely to the next chapter. Sorry!
> 
> Thank you so much to PriestessofGroove for betaing! She had to correct so many mistakes, that maybe I even missed cleaning some of them. The mistakes are all mine!
> 
> Finally, a reminder that the characters in this story, Tyrion for instance, are the show characters, following the show plot (senseless as it often was).

 

_-_

 

 

_"You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning."_

Tywin Lannister to Tyrion, A Storm of Swords, Tyrion I.

 

_“As Morion’s fleet beat its way across the Sea of Dorne, the dragons Vermithor, Caraxes, and Vhagar fell on them from out of the clouds. Shouts rang out, and the Dornish filled the air with scorpion bolts, but firing at a dragon is one thing, and killing it quite another. A few bolts glanced off the scales of the dragons, and one punched through Vhagar’s wing, but none of them found any vulnerable spots as the dragons swooped and banked and loosed great blasts of fire. One by one the ships went up in gouts of flame.”_

George R.R. Martin, Fire and Blood.

 

_______________________________________________

 

He loved the game, the great bloody game, the intrigue, the plotting, the power--- and most of all, he loved to be the center of it. Him, the dwarf, the monster, the demon monkey, the Kinslayer. For all that they underestimated him, and scorned him, and laughed at him, now once again he held the power, his were the moves on the great cyvasse board that was the Seven Kingdoms. He was the Kingbreaker, and the Kingmaker. And yet, and yet… He had the strangest feeling, sometimes, the thought nagging on his mind, that the board he played at was just half of the real one, and that the true game was deeper, hidden from him, a different game altogether. One whose purposes and rules he didn’t know. But perhaps that was just his weariness.

Though it had been too easy--- Bran the Broken was now King, and he, Tyrion, had made it so. He was the all-powerful Hand of the King, in his own right. He was the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, just as his father had been. Well, Six Kingdoms, but still. I hope you can see me, father, from the Seven Hells I sent you to! Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King. All that you denied me, is now mine. Because you were wrong, father, no matter how much you didn’t want to see it --- I have always been your son, the true heir of Tywin Lannister, not Jaime, and not Cersei. Perhaps you refused to see your twisted nature reflected in my twisted body.

You were right on one crucial thing though—never let sentiment get in the way of ambition. So thank you for the lesson, father, may you rot in Hell.

Did you start like me, believing in Aerys the Mad King, like I did in his daughter? Did you keep faith until he turned on you? Did you start wanting to do right by the people you ruled? They didn’t loathe you like they do me, and yet you did your own Sack of Kings Landing. The Mad King didn’t do it for you, like the Mad Queen did for me. But in the end, it didn’t matter.  The truth didn’t matter, doing right didn’t matter, justice didn’t matter. The shadow on the wall, is what matters, the story you crafted, even if it was a lie. Perhaps I should have learned that the first time you shoved that lesson in my face.

Because in the end, you were right, father, nothing matters.  Only the great game and those who win it. I won by surviving.

His thoughts were interrupted by the knock on his solar door, and his guard announcing that Grand Maester Tarly wished to see him urgently.

Grand Maester Tarly… He was part of the nagging feeling that not all was as it appeared. Not Tarly himself, but something around him… It was his position that bothered him. Why was he Grand Maester? Yes, he was a friend to the King, and to the Starks besides, and it was Samwell Tarly who helped discover Jon’s parentage. He was a harmless coward, with seemingly no ambition, and with whom he shared a love of books. He even liked him. But still, Tarly was not qualified to be a Grand Maester, which the King very well knew, or should have known, and yet here he was. When it was Joffrey on the throne, or his sister, this would have been expected. The Lannister cronies filled the Court. And he had had his share of dealings with the previous Grand Maester, Pycelle, who was a treacherous creature through and through, but his father’s man nonetheless, the slimy lecherous goat. He wondered briefly who had killed Pycelle, perhaps Cersei’s Hand, who had seemed to harbor a malice towards the Citadel and its Maesters for expelling him. But after all this did not matter, and it was not what was troubling him now. Something did not fit. Bran the Broken was a Stark, and the honorable Starks did not stand for toadies. And Tarly had a lover, or a wife, besides, or whatever that wildling woman was to him. With a second child on the way, which he was sure the King also knew about. The Citadel had protested that they always chose the Grand Maester themselves, but the King had ignored them, with not even a reply. And they, for some reason, did not press the matter. The Tyrells were gone, courtesy of the combined efforts of Jaime and Cersei, otherwise they would have objected to elevating someone from that traitor family to such a high office, with no just deserts moreover. Tyrion himself, who had the last to final word as Hand, did not object when the King wished it. He could use Tarly better than whichever self-righteous old goat the Citadel sent. And here Tarly was, a Grand Maester.

Was it a reward for something Tarly had done? But what had he done? He had run from the Citadel and gone back to Winterfell to help in the Great War, and yet he did nothing helpful. He had even stolen Citadel books to read about the Others, but he never found anything useful in them except the passage of Rhaegar and Lyanna’s marriage. A knowledge that ultimately did not help their son, who ended up only the worse for it. With not a little help from himself for that matter.

He didn’t want to dwell on that.  It was past now, and luckily his thoughts were interrupted once more by the Grand Maester Tarly himself, who was ushered in the room, as always looking as if in fear for his life. Tyrion waved at him to come in, and after some of the usual annoying stammering and Tarly’s refusal of the offered wine, the Grand Maester got to the point:

“I am ssorry to intrude at such a late hour, mmy Lord Hand, but we have news from Winterfell, from Maester Wolkan.”

“What does Lady, nay, Queen Sansa, have to say that is so urgent? I trust it is not a second invasion of the Others?”

“That’s just it, mmy lord, it is not on the orders of Lady Sansa that Maester Wolkan writes, he writes that she is ddead. The Queen’s dragon, ppardon me, tthat’s to mean the Mad King’s daughter, her dragon, killed Queen Sansa. “

“When did that happen? How did that happen?”

“Eight days past now. Maester Wolkan writes that Queen Sansa was too badly burned, and there was nothing he could do for her. Sshe took three days ddying. “

Tyrion cringed. From the look in Tarly’s eyes, he could see that it must have been a hideous death, and they both had seen too much death to leave them not be easily perturbed.

“He writes that the dragon burned Winterfell to the ground. There is nothing but rubble and the caved-in crypts left. Maester Wolkan writes that he left Winterfell and is traveling with the few remaining people to White Harbor.”

Tyrion looked at the Grand Maester, who was clearly as shocked by the news as he himself was, his fat fingers trembling as they held the scroll. The news was more than troubling.  It was disastrous! Not only because he still held a lingering liking for Sansa-- and he did not want her dead, let alone in such a way-- but because of what it meant for him. Drogon was back. The last news he had of Drogon was when the King mentioned that he was seen flying east. He had hoped that Drogon had returned to Essos, back to the Dothraki sea where he was born. A naïve wish, it now seemed.

“Can we trust Maester Wolkan, perhaps there is some mistake?”

“Hhe wouldn’t lie about this mmy Llord. Why would he?”

People lie for all kinds of reasons, Tyrion thought.  But Tarly was right, there was no point in lying about this. The northern Maester was even doing them a favor by letting them know. He owed no allegiance to the South, now that the North was independent. Perhaps he had meant the letter for Sansa’s brother, the King. To let him know that his sister was dead, and to prepare for what may come. Though how does one prepare against Drogon?

Tyrion himself was surprised and not a little relieved that Drogon had left Kings Landing after the death of his mother. If he was honest with himself, he had expected Drogon to burn Jon Snow, and everybody and everything to the ground. He still didn’t understand why he didn’t. Perhaps he spared Jon Snow, or rather, Aegon Targaryen, because of his dragon blood. And yet, the dragons have killed almost as many Targaryens in the past, as other Targaryens did. So there must be something else. Whatever the reason, Drogon was back.

What did that mean? If Drogon had flown North, that showed that not only were the dragons as intelligent as men, something he already knew, but also that they were as vindictive as men. Loyal to the ones they loved, cruel to their enemies, was that the writing? And it was clear now, they did not forget easily.

“Does the King know?” He asked Tarly.

“I bbrought the mmessage to you first, mmy Lord. I knew you were not yet asleep. Bbut the King has his own ways of knowing things.”

Tyrion didn’t like that reminder. It always irked him that he did not know the extent of the King’s powers. What the King knew and how he knew it. Seemingly he had access to all the knowledge and history of Westeros. “Its memory”, that was what he said when they were fighting the Night King. The King had never shared much with anybody of what he knew though. Not when he was still back in Winterfell, not when he, Tyrion, made him King.

“Check to see if the King sleeps. We also have to summon the Small Council as soon as possible.”

Though what could they do? They still had a couple of scorpions left, but dozens of them hadn’t been able to stop Drogon when he razed Kings Landing. He himself had watched when Bronn had managed to shoot a bolt straight into him, and had seen him fall only to straighten himself and destroy that scorpion. Yes, Rhaegal had died by a scorpion bolt, but he had been smaller, and wounded besides. And those same scorpions had done nothing against Drogon when the assault on Kings Landing had begun. He remembered in his readings he had come across the account of the first Dornish war, when the Dornish felled down Meraxes at Hellholt with a fluke shot to the eye. Emboldened, the Dornish had built a multitude of scorpions, and shot at the dragons, but the bolts only glanced off their scales and made the dragons angrier.  
Drogon was angry enough as it was.

  
They found the King in his usual place, sitting in the Godswood, his eyes white and turned inward. They didn’t dare shake the King, but they hadn’t long to wait when King Bran suddenly lowered his head and his eyes returned to look at them, his expression blank and unreadable as always.

“Your Grace, forgive us for disturbing you, but we have dire news of Winterfell”, Tyrion started. “Maester Wolkan writes…”

“I know, I have seen it”, King Bran interrupted, blankly.

Tyrion had half expected that, yet he did not know what to say. Silence stretched, dark and ominous.

“Is it ttrue then? Lady Ssansa…?”

King Bran, or The Three Eyed Raven, looked at Tarly, his expression unchanged.

“Yes. Winterfell is no more. Queen Sansa is dead.”

The silence stretched once more, tangible like a breath around them.

Yet again it was Samwell Tarly who broke it:

“What are we ggoing tto do, Your Grace?”

The Three Eyed Raven said nothing for a long time, until Tarly began to squirm uncomfortably.

“What would you like to do?”

This question was so unexpected, that Tyrion’s head snapped up.

“Does it matter what we would like to do?! We have to protect the people? Drogon can burn the Kingdoms to the ground if we do not find a way to stop him!”

King Bran looked at him, unblinking.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Something, anything! You are the Three Eyed Raven, are you not?! You are the King, the Lord Protector of the Realm! There must be something!”

It was as if Tyrion had shouted his words to the winds, for how much effect they seemed to have on his King in front of him. The fear and dread were mixing with his anger now, and he wanted to shake Bran, to rouse him, to make him show fear, or determination, or anger. Anything instead of the blank look on his face.

“Is there nothing you can say?! Do you not want to protect your people, save yourself? Avenge your sister? Do you not care at all?!”

The boy, or man, in front of Tyrion looked at him with eyes as unreadable as they were dark, no expression discernable on his face.

“You wanted a King who does not want, isn’t this what you said? And now you expect me to want to protect you, to care what happened to you and your people? Didn’t you already betray a Queen who cared?”

Tyrion couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he felt as if the grounds shifted below his feet.

I never betrayed her.  I believed in her, and I was deceived. I loved her even! She betrayed me, she burned the city to the ground!

Though he couldn’t say it, for once the words stuck in his throat.

“Sshe was mad, like hher father”, Tarly stuttered.

“I didn’t betray her, to my eternal shame I stayed loyal to her until she burned this very city she was supposed to save”. Tyrion found his voice, though it was shaking.

King Bran shifted his head and continued watching him, infuriatingly calm.

“You, though, were supposed to be different! Bran the Broken! I made you a King because you were supposed to be different!”

The little smile that showed on the Three Eyed Raven’s face was freezing.

“Do you think that it was your little speech that made me King? Perhaps you think that Queen Yara of the Iron Islands and the false Prince of Dorne were convinced by your eloquence? Do you think they even listened till the end of it?”

“You did not pay attention, did you? So entranced were you by your own ability to sway people with your words. But I told you before—why else had I come all this way?”

The words hit Tyrion like a physical blow. He had been startled to hear those words then, but he had waived it off as a clumsy affirmation of what he was proposing, and agreement to take on the mantle of King. The words had tugged on his mind from time to time, but he hadn’t wanted to dwell on them.

“I had planned for it long before you finished letting your brother Jaime out of his capture. In fact it was me who sent him away from his second chance of life with a woman who loved him, and who he loved in return. Love makes things easy to predict. Honor makes it easier. Love and honor will always make you do anything to protect the one you love. That is what your brother had wanted all his life, love and honor. But I needed him in Kings Landing, because he was the surest way to your betrayal. The moment you let him free the path forward was sealed.“

Tyrion could hear his breath whistling, behind the thump-thump-thump of his heart, his eyes glued to this being, the King he had chosen, because he had deemed him harmless.

“That was a betrayal of your Queen, was it not? A third to last betrayal in a long line of betrayals. Though that little betrayal was almost forgotten in the face of the greater ones. Perhaps I should thank you for your last marvelous manipulation of the true heir Jon Snow, when you turned him into a Kinslayer and a Queenslayer. I counted on you to do it. Though I doubt you did it for anything else but to survive. Because you knew that there was no one who could save the murderer of Daenerys Targaryen, and so you wanted someone else to be that murderer. There was no brother left to save you this time. He had already paid his debt. A Lannister always pays his debt, is this not so? ”

Samwell Tarly shook beside him, and Tyrion did not believe his ears, he couldn’t believe his eyes, as the Three Eyed Raven continued, his voice almost disembodied, so little did it match the broken boy in front of him.

“I have watched you for a long time, Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King. You are a survivor most of all. You somehow always managed to outlive the people you claim to have loved, even as they died, or suffered a fate worse than death. Maybe you will survive this time too, though I doubt it.”

Tyrion was rooted to the spot, the words icy cold even as his blood felt fiery hot, his heart beating in his ears.

“There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story.” Wasn’t that what you said in your little speech? You were right in that, I will grant you. Though not every story is a story of a victory, especially not for the people you claim to have loved.”

“Daenerys Targaryen lost her victory. A victory that she could have had, had she not listened to your advice. She lost herself, her mind, and her life. She lost her name even, and she will forever be remembered not as the Breaker of Chains, but as the Mad Queen. “

Tyrion couldn’t stand this, this was not true!

“I did not kill her! I always advised her faithfully! And we know now she had always had madness in her, the madness of her father. “

“Did she, now? But was she not mad in Mereen, when you swore to her service? “I believe in you”, you said. Was she mad when she sent the Unsullied to take Casterly Rock for you, the seat you had coveted all your life? Your advice never seemed to help her, the more she listened to you, the more she lost”.

“It was not my fault, I did everything I could to have her reign; I did not see her for what she was!”

“No, it is never your fault, is it? You just never seem to have the power to defend and help those you claim to love. True, you did not kill her, nor did you make her lose her mind. That was not your hand. You were just the little push along the way of her losses, towards her path to darkness. Between Cersei and her, it was easy to choose her. But yourself? Or your brother? In the end, you were a Lannister, and you were always going to choose yourself and your own. “

“My brother saved me! When I was to be executed for a crime I did not commit, my brother saved me. I owed him a debt. “

“Ironic, that your brother also was paying a debt when he freed you. Yes, a Lannister always pays his debt. “

“Debt? What debt? What are you saying?”

“Are you sure you want to know? After all, when some things are said, they can’t be unsaid. There is no going back. As you well should know by now. “

“Speak what you mean, I have heard every vile thing thrown at me already. What is it you think you know?” Though the moment Tyrion said it, he was afraid, and knew deep down he will regret it.

“She was just what she had seemed—a crofter’s daughter.”

The words hung in the air like a poisonous fume. Monstrous.

“What?”

“Tysha. You first wife. She was what she had seemed to you when you met her on that road. She was not a whore. Your brother didn’t buy her for you. That was a lie your father commanded Jaime to tell you. To teach you a lesson. “

Tyrion didn’t want to hear anything more, he wanted to shut his ears, close his eyes. He wanted to be far away, but he couldn’t move. His legs were like stones, and he felt as if he was watching the blank face of the Three Eyed Raven frozen in a dream.

He remembered, after all these years, he remembered still. She was dark-haired and slender, with a face that would break your heart. Lowborn, halfstarved, unwashed... yet lovely. They had met her on the road back from Lannisport, when they had heard a scream, and she had come running out into the road with two men dogging her heels. Jaime went after the men while he had put his cloak around her and brought her to the nearest inn and fed her. That night they had drank a flagon of wine, and the next thing he knew he was sharing her bed. They had both been shy, she had been the first girl he bed, and he had taken her maidenhood. She had sung a sweet song to him through her tears, and had kissed him more sweetly still. He had fallen in love that same night, and by the end of the week they were married. Tyrion had found a drunken septon and had paid him fifty silver coins to marry them.

He still remembered his happiness those few weeks in that small cottage by the sunset sea. They spent whole days doing no more than lolling in bed, listening to the waves, and making love, Tysha singing songs in her soft voice. “I love you, Tyrion,” she would whisper before they went to sleep at night. He had never been that happy, not before, not since.

But then the end of his marriage had come. The septon had sobered, and had told his lord father about the marriage. Lord Tywin had brought Tyrion in, and then Jaime had confessed that he had arranged all— the road, the men, Tysha— because he had wanted him to have a woman.

And now Tyrion knew this was a lie. A monstrous lie that his father had made Jaime tell. How could Jaime have done that to him?

Lord Tywin had brought his wife in then, and gave her to his guards. A barrackfull of guards. They each paid her a silver. While his father had sat him down in the corner of the barracks and bade him watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor.

And that was not even the worst. Lord Tywin had made him go last. He had bid him take her one last time, after the rest were done. One last time, with no trace of love or tenderness remaining. “So you will remember her as she truly is,” Lord Tywin had said. He should have defied his father, but his cock had betrayed him, and he did take her. Lord Tywin had then given him a gold coin to pay her, because, he had said, he was a Lannister, and worth more. And after he was done with her, his father had the marriage undone, as if he had never been wed.

It had been so many years, but all his memories were still fresh, undimmed. His father, of him he could believe that. Tyrion always knew what his father was. But Jaime?

Why did Jaime do that? How could he do that to me? My wife, she loved me…

They were gone though, dead and buried. His father deserved the bolt in his gut, and he would kill him again and again if he had somehow risen back to life.

But Jaime? His brother was the only one who had ever shown him love. How could Jaime do that to him? Why didn’t he tell him? Perhaps he thought Tyrion had forgotten about her. But he could never forget. All his life he had thought her words were false. But she had loved him. And he had repaid her by raping her, the last one after his father’s guards. A barrack full of them. And he had paid her a golden coin, he could still see it shining over the silver…

  
“Is this true?” Tyrion asked the Three Eyed Raven. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been in the cold for days, and his eyes betrayed him.

“Why would I lie?” He replied unmoved. Samwell Tarly stood silently, afraid to look at him.

“I don’t know…” Tyrion felt that nothing made sense now. He did not know who he himself was, who the inhuman being in the chair in front of him was.

“That is the truest thing I have heard in a long time”.

“Bbut you are the Three Eyed Raven, you ccan’t lie” –Tarly’s tremulous voice almost made him jump.

The Three Eyed Raven shifted his head slightly to look at Tarly.

“According to whom?”

But Tyrion knew it wasn’t a lie.

“Why would you tell me this now?”

“The end is coming. Don’t you want to know the truth?”

Tyrion did not know the answer to that either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the book readers know, the true story of Tysha is told to Tyrion by a guilt-ridden Jaime, when Jaime frees him from his cell. Upon learning it, Tyrion hits Jaime and tells him, in order to hurt him, that he killed Joffrey (a lie), and that Cersei has been unfaithful to Jaime with several men (truth). Then Tyrion proceeds to go and kill his father, the main reason being that Tywin calls Tysha again a whore. The phrase "wherever the whores go" haunts Tyrion constantly since then.
> 
> Now the stupid show omitted this extremely important truth from the show, basically leaving Tyrion to think of Tysha as his first whore. Also it omitted what Tyrion himself did --that he too raped her in the end. And of course, omitted Jaime lying to Tyrion. This is an extremely important scene in the books. I am using this show lapse (not the only lapse, nor even the biggest stupidity of the show) to re-introduce Tysha here. Let show-Tyrion know what he really is--a small man. He started the show as a small man only in stature, but a big person in character. But he, as all the show characters that survived till the end, turned into an even smaller man in character, not worthy of respect. To my everlasting lament. Bloodraven, whatever his malice, is a big player, and has never had patience with small men. So he just holds the mirror of truth and lets them see themselves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part of Jon's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my friend, who just died of cancer.

 

It had been days since Drogon had come.  How many Jon did not really know anymore, the days and nights blurring into each other this far up North.

 

They had set up from Castle Black going North, he and Tormund leading the party. The people walking behind them had all been Free Folk.  None of his Black brothers volunteered for a ranging far up North, and he did not press them. There were few of them anyway, most of the people at the Wall were wildlings, and they were eager to get back to the True North, as Tormund called it.

 

If he was honest with himself, Jon did not know if he was ever planning to return from this ranging back to Castle Black.  He didn’t plan for anything anymore really, for what was the point  anyway.  The Old Gods, the new Gods, whichever Gods there were, the Lord of Light, whoever was playing with their mortal lives, did not care what he planned or what he wanted.  What did he want anyway? Did he want anything? Perhaps to die.  But who could say if the Gods would stay their cruel will this time and keep him dead? Why did they even bring him back?

 

The wildlings following behind him had given him the only glimpse of meaning, reminded him of the only thing in his life that perhaps came up positive in the balance. The lives of the Free Folk he helped save by letting them past the Wall may measure up for something in the ledger of his life.  Everything else he touched had withered and crumbled, or turned malignant before his eyes. Everybody else he had betrayed, or they had betrayed him, one way or another. 

 

Tormund was the only one he told what had happened in the South.  When he came to the Wall, rumors had already reached it, that the Dragon Queen was dead, and that he had killed her. That his brother Bran was King, and his sister Sansa was Queen in the North now.  Nobody asked to his face, but they all watched him--- some wearily, some with malicious curiosity, some even with pity. And they whispered. The whispers wafted behind his back as a poisonous fog.

 

One night before they left, atop the Wall, when all was quiet and there was nobody around, Tormund told him of the rumors and asked him bluntly if they were true.  Tormund had not believed them at first. Because how could they make sense? But Tormund had understood there was much amiss when he saw Jon arrive at the Wall. At first, Jon couldn’t bring himself to tell of what happened. It was as if speaking it out-loud would make it true, give it immutability, prove that the past was not just a nightmare he would wake up from. But he owed the truth to his friend. To himself.

 

At times the words were pouring out of him, and at times he couldn’t even form any. He couldn’t bring himself to give shape to the images that filled his vision constantly, which consumed him when he fell asleep, and were pushing to swamp even his awaking hours now.

 

 Tormund didn’t speak often, only rarely asking questions. Most often Jon didn’t know the true answers to them, the same questions he had been asking himself again, and again, and again.

 

“I thought you were going to marry her, isn’t that why you went South?”

 

“Why would the Dragon Queen do that? It makes no sense, you had won?”

 

“Is that why you killed her?”

 

“Why would she kill your sisters? She could have killed us all, any time she wanted, us and your sisters, all. She loved you, I saw it for myself. She, and her dragons, and her men, without them we wouldn’t have survived the fight with the Others.  Your sisters would be dead if not for her. We all would be dead if not for her. Why would she kill your sisters after she saved them?”

 

Even though Jon did not want to talk about it, neither did he think his wildling friend would really understand, he told Tormund the story of Rhaegar and Lyanna, who they were, of the claim he had to the throne. That his sisters were not really his sisters, but his cousins. That his whole life he had lived the lie of being a bastard. That Daenerys turned out to be his aunt, his birth father’s sister. And that this truth, knowing who he was,  something he had dreamed of his whole life, in the end meant nothing but loss and doom to him. That his sister, cousin, Sansa had told that dangerous truth to others, and they had pitted him against Daenerys. He didn’t tell Tormund the truth that Sansa had wanted Daenerys dead, and had used his claim to see it happen. He hadn’t wanted to believe then that Sansa was capable of that. But he knew now.  And it was not because she wanted Jon to rule, but because she didn’t care if she ruined him to get what she wanted. To be the Queen in the North. He had been forced to kill Daenerys because of Sansa’s ambition. Because of Sansa’s betrayal he had had to choose between the lives of his sisters, and the life of the woman he loved.

 

Tormund had listened in silence, though Jon could see that what he told him had shocked him. Only when Jon had finally finished talking, and silence had stretched between them,  Tormund had asked:

 

“Why didn’t her dragon kill you? Why did her men let you live?”

 

Jon did not know.

 

…..

 

The sprawling column moved slow, as they were in no hurry, there were no Others on their heels this time. They stuck together, even though the old enmities between the different wildling clans were not entirely forgotten, and he often watched Tormund separate the two sides before one or the other ended up dead. “At least there are no Thenns”, Tormund had said.  The Thenns had all followed their Magnar, and remained in the Gift. Most of the Free Folk traveling with them respected Jon, albeit some very grudgingly.  Though also many of the Free Folk still didn’t count him as one of them, and if he interfered, he would be sure to earn the enmities of both sides. Not that some didn’t hate him anyway, they still remembered that he had fought against them, and not everybody was able or willing to let go of the past. Good or bad. He couldn’t blame them really.

 

During the day he would push down the memories, but they would not stay down for long.  Often the daily comings and goings would bring those flashes to the forefront, and it would be as if he was slammed back to the time It had happened. The weapon in his hand as he would finish the game would flash him back to the moment he felt his dagger slide into _her_ breast.  The dark brown of the eyes of a wildling child that looked at him with trust would suddenly turn into violet, and it was _her_ eyes instead he watched in horror as the childlike trust died in the shock of betrayal.

 

Still, the days were easier, as life beyond the wall was hard. There were many mouths that had to be fed. Many of the wildling women could hunt as well as the men, but they were also traveling with children and old people, and they had to hunt to feed them as well.

 

 Jon was grateful for something to do, because all that had to be attended to during the day didn’t allow time for the memories to overwhelm him.

 

 At night that was impossible. The memories were all around him then. In the moonlight on the lake water that glowed in waves like her hair.  The setting sun painted the sky in the violet light of her eyes.  Each fire would bring a war of memories --- the red of Drogon’s fire that had saved him from the wights; the blue of Viserion’s  that brought down the walls of Winterfell and almost swallowed him; Kings Landing fires of destruction;   the great river of flame that seemed to consume the world around him in that throne room and yet let him alive.

 

At night the swarming column of the Free Folk would splinter into many campfires, but they would try not to disperse too far away from each other. The Others were gone, but there were many other predators in the Haunted Forrest, and there was safety in numbers.  One of the first nights on the move Jon had tried joining one of the livelier groups around the fire to drown his own thoughts, but the stories of the War for the Dawn that the Free Folk told around the fire made it even worse. It was torturous to listen as the older folk that had fought in the war told the children the stories of armies of horse lords that knew no fear as they charged the army of the dead, and of brown spearmen with strange shields and helms who fought as one to defend the living. When a grizzled soldier started speaking of dragons flying above the living and destroying the wights in great swaths of fire, he had had to get up and leave. He remembered Tormund’s hailing his dragon riding at the feast in Winterfell, so long ago it seemed now, and he couldn’t bear to be asked of it. And yet the memories could not to be kept at bay, drowning him in a wave after wave. That night in Winterfell was the night that it all went so wrong. Rhaegal was dead, and Jon had killed his Mother.  He owed them his life many times over, and yet they had paid for his and his sisters’ lives with their own.

 

That night he couldn’t fall asleep until the morning. Since then each evening he took one of the watches on the outskirts of the sprawling camp, and returned only when the story-telling had died down, and most had fallen asleep already. He slept fitfully next to Tormund, and he would sometimes catch Tormund looking at him with a worried look, but neither of them said anything.

 

 

The snow had let off when they departed the Wall, but it didn’t seem that their luck stayed with them as they continued North. Some of the people that followed them were falling sick. It was a sickness that Jon hadn’t seen before, and it seemed none of the Free Folk had either. It started with fever and stomach cramps, and the young seemed to be most susceptible. The wise women that traveled with them tried every herb and potion they knew to help fever, but it didn’t budge. Two children and an old men had died already.  More were getting sick. Still, they had continued northwards.

 

That night they had camped around a small lake that had a larger clearing on its southern bank, large enough that could fit all their group with a space to spare. Since they didn’t fear human enemies, they set to make camp in the clearing rather than among the ancient trees on the northern side. That way they could better guard against a shadow cat or another predator snatching somebody.

 

Jon was walking around the camp as the fires were started, as had become his habit in the days since they left the Wall. He noticed, not for the first time, that some of the folk started whispering as he passed them. It reminded him of the whispers behind his back at the Wall, but unlike before he would also catch a look of fear on some of the faces. A large group that had followed the Weeper before his death was gathered together and were talking in hushed voices around Mother Mole. The talking stopped when they saw him and they followed him with eyes full of suspicion, some even hatred. He didn’t expect anything else from the Weeper’s men, his underlings were as vicious as the Weeper himself had been. They had kept quiet so far, but Jon did not trust this to continue for long. Their acknowledged leader was a skinchanger named Sovun, who controlled a large snowy owl. But their true leader was a tall woman, not young, but not too old either, who was feared throughout the Free Folk. Jon didn’t even know her name, people only talked about her as “the vragha”.  Jon had seen wildlings going to her for advice and potions, usually bringing an offering with them. Tormund had explained that unlike Mother Mole, who was a “veshta”, the other was a wood witch of the older kind, the one that still dealt in blood sacrifices to the Old Gods. Tormund had said that by using such sacrifices she could even cast a spell of death. Jon was almost ready to believe that this was one of Tormund’s strange jokes, but then he had seen the woman’s eyes. The power and the cold in them were overwhelming.

 

The _vragha_ was not in the group with Mother Mole and the Weeper’s men.  Jon guessed she was in her tent. Her tent was made of different skins, one of the few tents remaining to the wildlings, and it was erected first each time they made camp. Mother Mole, on the other hand, usually slept in the hollows between tree roots, or surrounded by other women and the children of the Free Folk. She was a kind woman, and was often with the sick to feed them potions and do what she could for them. Mother Mole had been at Hardhome and had helped persuade the Free Folk to board the ships that saved them from the army of the dead.

 

Not wishing to start trouble Jon did not stop to ask what was amiss, but continued on his walk around the camp as more and more fires were lit for the night. It was still cold even for the wildlings to sleep without fire.  Many of the women and some men were preparing meals with the daily hunt and what roots and plants they could gather. As had become his usual routine, Jon did not stay to sit around a fire, but took his meal with him to eat later.

 

 It was now fully dark and he was almost at the northwest edge of camp next to the lake when he heard it. A beat almost like the sound of a leather drum, and a roaring whistle as if a gust of wind hit a crevice in the rocks. A sound he knew, imprinted in his mind forever -- the beat of dragon wings as it turned and wheeled in the air.  Drogon had come.

 

Even knowing that he had come for him at last, and even knowing the destruction Drogon had already wroth, it was impossible for Jon not to look at the huge dragon in flight with a heart full of wonder. Now that Drogon was closer, his giant dark form could be seen outlined in the sky, a darker shadow against the dark sky. He flew lower and lower still, the beat of his wings like thunder, until he landed not far across from Jon, his landing causing a tremor that shook the ground around them.

 

Jon stood frozen, watching the last dragon that anybody would ever see, wanting to savor the terrifying beauty of his flight, of this moment, the last thing he would see before the end.  He would look into Drogon’s eyes as his fire consumed him.  In his mind’s eye Jon could even see Drogon’s rider, in happier times, before everything that happened.   His memories were flying now—Daenerys on her throne on Dragonstone, diminutive, but her presence filling the room.  Her flying in on Drogon, the time he touched the hot dragon scale for the first time.  Drogon’s fire  just above his head, destroying the swarming wights when he thought it was all over for them on that small island. His rider looking down from high on top of Drogon,  a silver beam of light and hope.  Her face that first night on the ship, her eyes looking up at him with love. This is what he wanted to remember last. This is how he wanted to die.

 

He could hear screams from the side and behind him, Tormund voice, trying to shout orders to stand down, that the dragon was friendly, overlapping with other shouts of “Aim for the mouth and the eyes”.

 

But he did not want to tear his eyes from Drogon and from his memory. Nothing else mattered. It was easy to die. He would go into the darkness willingly, it waited for him, just there.

 

And yet the fire would not come.

 

When the arrows and the spears came, they seemed to fly slowly, as if suspended in the air.  And then the fire came.  The great dragon’s maw opening in a blinding burst of heat, the light overwhelming.

 

But the fire was not for him.

 

The screams died down almost before they came, the few flying spears small bursting pops in the great conflagration.

 

The dragon roared then, a deafening sound.

 

Jon stood rooted to the spot. Drogon too did not move closer, the enormous wing claws hooked his glittering wings to the ground, his horned head looking down so high above them.

 

For a few beats of his heart there was an almost silence and stillness as the moment stretched.

 

Then the screams and movements started behind him.

 

“Stop!”

 

The female voice was not really familiar to Jon, but it rung with authority. Reluctantly he turned from Drogon, to see the _vragha_ walking towards him, her hand raised in a gesture of command to the few spearwives and men armed with spears and bows that were coming to stand to replace the wildings that Drogon had just burned. Jon could see Tormund running towards him as well, and most of the wildlings taking the children and running the opposite way, towards the other end of the sprawling lake camp and to the trees of the Haunted forest.

 

Drogon lowered his head and opened his maw again, his gullet like a great oven with a red fire burning within. But the _vragha_ did not waver her steps towards him, and Drogon did not unleash his fire. He just looked at her. A warning.

 

The _vragha_ stopped a few steps from Jon and called to one of the wildings with the spears to bring Mother Mole and Sovun. She was instantly obeyed, the few wildlings that stood armed stepped a little back, but didn’t lower their weapons. Not that it would have helped against Drogon. Perhaps they just wanted to die on their feet, fighting.

 

The _vragha_ did not say a word to Jon while they were waiting, instead she looked up at the dragon that could incinerate her in a blink. And still there was no fear on her face, but a reverence. 

 

When Mother Mole arrived there was a sadness Jon could read in her face, that contrasted with the open hatred of Sovun. Tormund, as the foremost leader of the Free Folk, had joined them too, a strange mix on his face—sadness, confusion, fear.

 

“You belong to him”—the _vragha_ said.

 

Jon did not understand. “I can’t control him”.

 

“That is not what I mean. Your life belongs to him. You slayed his kin. Your kin. The Mother of Dragons. You are a kinslayer. The  Gods hate a kinslayer. Even when he kills without knowing. You knew. Your life is forfeit and the blood curse is on you.”

 

“I am ready to pay with my death. I didn’t want anybody else to die because of me.”

 

“Your death is not the payment. Tell him.” The _vragha_ nodded to Mother Mole.

 

Mother Mole looked at Jon with regret. “Is it true what Sovun said—that you are a kinslayer?”

 

“I am not a liar, woman. I heard him say to Tormund that the Dragon Queen he killed was his kin. Not only that, he said he loved her, and still he killed her, knowing.” Sovun glowered not at Mother Mole, but at Tormund. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why did you bring him with us?”

 

It took a moment for Jon to understand that Sovun meant he heard them through the ears of his owl that night on the Wall.

 

“If not for him, we would all be dead. The Free Folk would be no more.” Tormund glared back.

 

“The Free Folk will be no more because of him. You want us all to become like crows, to forget the Gods’ laws.”

 

“He is one of us now, he is no longer a crow!”

 

“No? Look at him!  How many times would you let him betray the Free Folk? Did you forget that he betrayed you and Mance once before? He didn’t save us because he cared about the Free Folk, but because he didn’t want more fighters in the army of the dead. It was Mance that we made our King Beyond the Wall. Now you want us to kneel to this crow, make us follow a kinslayer? You may have forgotten your Gods in the south, but we didn’t.”

 

“You forget who you are talking to, boy! I am Tormund Giantsbane. I am never going to kneel and you are not the one to teach me about our Gods …”

 

A deafening roar interrupted them,  Drogon spreading his wings in a great wooshing of wind as he took a thunderous step forward.  The wildings raised their weapons instinctively, and the _vragha_ once again raised her hand to them and called “Stop!”

 

“There is no point in arguing. The Gods have spoken. His life is forfeit. Tell him.”

 

Mother Mole lowered his head for a moment, and then looked Jon in the eyes.

 

“The kinslayer curse is not death, but life. “

 

“It has been this way since the dawn of time, when the First Men were closer to the Gods, and when they still sacrificed blood to feed the heart-trees. “

 

“There were two brothers then, a few years apart. The older had a keep, and he grew his food from the soil. He even ruled the land and people around his keep. Unlike the older brother, the younger herded different flocks and did not stay in one place for long.  The older brother was jealous of the younger, because to him it seemed the Gods looked with more favor upon the younger. Some say it was because of the blood from his herds that the younger sacrificed to the Gods to feed their heart-trees. The younger brother prospered, his herds were the most numerous in the land, and many men came from afar to trade with him. The younger brother had won the love of the young woman whom both brothers wanted for a wife. “

 

“When he heard of that, it was as if a blood mist descended upon the older brother.  He fell upon his younger kin praying in front of a heart-tree, and he struck him on the back of the head with a stone that he had picked up in his rage. The blood from the mortal wound soaked the roots of the heart-tree, and the tree opened its mouth and cried in anguish to the Gods.  “

 

“There is no greater bond in life that the bond of blood. For breaking that bond in such a vile deed the Gods put a curse and a mark on the older brother. His life was forfeit. Nothing but emptiness and ruin would come of it. Nothing he started would ever give lasting fruits:  neither the labor of his hands, nor the seed of his loins would ever see future. The land that he ruled would become barren and the crops would stop yielding, the people he ruled would be plagued with disease.  Though he fathered children on women he stole, all of them but one died before him.”

 

“The Gods also put a mark on him, so that no beast, neither of the land, nor the sky, would kill him. His life would be long, and he would see the ruin of all that he started, before he died in the same way he had killed his brother: his own son, the last of his children, killed him unknowingly, before taking his own life. “

 

“All the kinslayers since then carry the Gods’ curse and the Gods’ mark.“

 

Mother Mole looked at Jon with sadness.

 

“The kinslayer blood curse is life without purpose, without love, without hope. Whatever a kinslayer starts, will be turned to ruin in the end.” The cold voice of the _vragha_ cut through him with finality.  

 

“Whoever befriends and gives comfort to a kinslayer will suffer the kinslayer curse. They will suffer, so that the kinslayer can see what their kindness brought them. The Gods will not allow people with such disregard of their will to live and prosper. “

 

Tormund bowed his head at those words. 

 

“That is why the Gods do not want you to die. That is why the great dragon would not kill you, even though your life is his to take. “

 

“But he will kill us. And if he doesn’t, the sickness that the Gods brought upon us will kill our children. And we will have to watch as they die, helpless.”

 

“The kinslayer’s punishment is his life. The punishment for those that knowingly aid a kinslayer is their death.  The Gods will not suffer a kinslayer to live free of punishment. “

 

“You are a danger to us all. You have to leave. Now. “

 

There was nothing else to be said. Whether Jon believed that he carried the Gods’ curse upon  him, or no, it did not matter. The Free Folk believed it. He remembered long ago Ygritte telling him the tale of Bael the Bard who was killed by his own son. “The Gods hate kinslayers, even when they kill unknowing”, she had said. Perhaps that was true. After all, it seemed to Jon that the Gods had hated him all his life. And then made him a kinslayer. Did they see when he was born that he would become a kinslayer?

 

Jon gathered his weapons and his few belongings, though he left his horse. A few of the Free Folk embraced him as he passed, though none spoke. Tormund’s embrace had lasted longest, and when they parted Tormund had tears in his eyes, but Jon understood that he needed to take care of his people. They were his responsibility and his duty.

 

The whole group of Free Folk had now gathered at a little distance towards the edge of the forest, with Tormund, Mother Mole, Sovun and the _vragha_ at the front. With one last look Jon turned and walked away from them, towards Drogon.

 

Drogon had stayed silent throughout, only his great tail swishing from time to time. Now that he saw Jon approach, he lowered his long neck down. Once more Jon was only at a hand’s distance from his huge scaly head, and could look into the liquid fire of his eyes.

 

It was as if the fire licked his inside thoughts then, a foreign, powerful mind in his own head.

 

“I can feel my brother’s presence still in you, kin, the brother that you could have bonded with. Did you even mourn his death? My other brother died to save you. Was it not enough? How much of our blood did you need, kin? I let you pass, you were our kin, our blood. It was my fault, but my brother had trusted you and my mother loved you. And you killed her. ”

 

“No, I don’t want you to die. Death is quick. You don’t deserve to die. I want you to live, like me. Alone.  With only memories of when you had kin.  Of when you had joy.  Of when you could roam the skies and feel your brothers with you. When you could feel the power and the love sing through your blood at your kin’s touch.”

 

“There is nobody left but us now, kin. And there is only pain and rage in my blood. I want you to live long and feel it all. All that I lost because of you. I want you to feel what I feel. “

 

“The pain of loss never abating. My blood. All gone. I want you to feel your blood lament in despair. The pain. Not even the rage drowning it.  The loneliness stretching to the horizon. The future nothing but emptiness. My blood. “

 

There was gaping hole left behind when Drogon’s mind lifted. The great dragon took off with a roar that shook the ground, a great jet of fire illuminating the night sky.

 

And then the darkness descended again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to cut Jon's POV in half, because it was getting too long. It is unbeta-ed this time, so apologies for the probably many mistakes. 
> 
> Also, apologies for the long wait, I write slowly, and on top of everything I was, and am, traveling still. 
> 
> Hopefully will be faster with the next chapter, and also with the time-travel re-start that the 5 chapters will serve as a prologue to.


	5. Jon/Bloodraven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my beautiful friends.
> 
> I think it is fitting, that it ends with Jon's and Bloodraven's POVs.
> 
> It finishes my attempt to find some explanation of the end of House Targaryen, and add some modicum of logic to the stupid show arc. For me, the only explanation of that poisonous arc is malice. In this story, it is Bloodraven who is maliciously destroying the characters. I also choose to take it as an allegory of the Douches destroying the characters in the show. 
> 
> This chapter is the last chapter of the time-line concerned with the show. From now on, the show is but ashes to me. 
> 
> Time-travel restarts in a new part. Fear not, the Gods have a use for all the fire and blood that befell Westeros. Next chapter, before the restart, Tyrion, Sam, Bloodraven will also die. Their blood, even if one drop in the cup, will also be used, because the Gods are nothing but bloodthirsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Chikinaa, who gave me the idea to have a confrontation between Bloodraven and Jon.  
> Hope you enjoy it, my friend!
> 
> As always I would like to thank wholeheartedly my two amazing betas (yes, apparently I need not one, but two): Priestess_of_Groove, and MeeMaw. They are both much better writers than me, and they helped me write a much much better story. 
> 
> I hope that they will continue helping me in the stories yet to come!

 

 

 

_This is the end, beautiful friend._

_I'll never look into your eyes, again_

_Lost in a vast wilderness of pain_

_And all the Children are insane, all the Children are insane_

_This is the end, my friend_

_This is the end, my only friend, the end_

_Of our elaborate plans, the end_

_Of everything that stands, the end_

_No safety or surprise, the end_

 

 

_The End._ The Doors. 

 

 _______________________________

 

 

Was it right?

 

There was nobody to answer. Only ghosts.

 

He had kept walking. He did not know why. Ever North. There was nothing else for him.  Even death refused to take him. He did not deserve to die. Death was too easy. Even Drogon had left him.

 

He used to see a murder of crows once upon a time. No longer. Now only his ghosts flew in the sky above his head. He would see them if he looked. Rhaegal. Viserion.  

 

They were all dead because of him. _Her_ most of all. His ghosts. They were the only ones that stayed with him now.

 

“I love you. Please don’t leave me. Stay.”

 

“You killed me. “

 

“I had to. I couldn’t allow you to kill more innocents. To kill my family. I had to save my family.”

 

“And so you killed me. Because I was nobody’s family.”

 

“You are my family. I love you. Please don’t leave me. Stay.”

 

Some days she stayed and walked with him. Those nights he would sleep with no fire, only in his furs. The cold was an old enemy that he had gotten so used to, it was almost a friend.

 

 But some days he would not see them at all.  Until the night came. And with it the dreams.

 

 Sometimes, when he hadn’t seen her, he would light a fire. Waiting for the dreams to come. Some of them were good. Some of them were memories. Of them in their cabin on that ship, so far away from everything that had been waiting for them at Winterfell.  So long ago now, the memories seemed only a dream.

 

 In some of them he was Ghost. Hunting, far away. But then the taste of blood in his mouth would change the dream. He would be back in his own body, on his knees in the cold, looking up at his betrayers. At Olly, who was looking down into his eyes with sorrow, steeling his resolve. And then Olly’s face would morph into his own. His own eyes looking down with sadness. His own hand holding the dagger. Looking down at Dany lying on the ground, staring with unseeing eyes, the pool of blood glistening as it spread. He would wake up then, choking as he had when he was brought back to life.

 

What did the Gods want of him? Why did they bring him back to life? He had been dead. Why didn’t they leave him dead?

 

He had thought when he was brought back it was for a single purpose. To fight for the living. Perhaps to die in the fight.

 

That had only been a shadow of a life. It hadn’t been worth holding onto. And he hadn’t. He had a duty to fulfill. That was all, he had thought then, and then he would be dead again. The Great War would claim his life and there would be no coming back again.

 

But then the Gods had dangled more: he had met Daenerys.  Despite refusing to face it for so long, he had loved her. And she had loved him. He had understood then what life could be, had dreamed then. Afraid though he was to dream of a life with her, of a future, of hope, he had dreamed of so many things. He couldn’t help it.

 

He hadn’t even imagined that the Gods could be so cruel. Even after all that he had lived through, he had underestimated their cruelty. But then everything had been taken from him. With one fell swoop.  The right to call Ned Stark his father. The right to love the woman that he loved. Everything that made him who he was was taken from him.  

 

But even that had not been all.  He had had to kill the woman that he loved. Because he couldn’t let her live. Because he had to choose between her and his own love for her, and the life of his sisters, the life of innocents. Honor demanded that he choose his sisters, not his own selfish love. The love that he didn’t even have a right to.

 

Was it right? The Gods at least owed him an answer to that. They had not granted him death, they had forced him to continue living, beyond endurance. They owed him. At the very least they owed him an answer.

 

He looked at the giant heart tree in front of him, and at the red eyes that seemed to follow him. He hadn’t even realized that he had come to a small clearing, where only the heart tree sat huge and menacing.

 

He felt his rage burn then, as so many times before. He wanted to burn the world, the Gods, their heart trees. Is this how Daenerys had felt?

 

He didn’t have a dragon though. Because he had refused to be a Targaryen. He had refused the calling of his dragon blood. And then Rhaegal had flown south and had died there. He was only a ghost now, flying on his ghostly wings in the pale sky above.

 

But he would burn every heart tree that he came upon. Starting with this one. For what the Gods had done to him. To the countless children that had burned in Kings Landing. To Dany. He would watch them burn, as they deserved. If they were truly Gods, why hadn’t they done something?

 

The cold weirwood tree wouldn’t take, and so Jon surrounded it with kindling that he had gathered from around the clearing. And still the tree would not burn, only his trunk blackened. The eyes kept watching him, though now they were dark, with only a hint of red.

 

But there was a shadow now beyond those eyes.  He could see it forming. Bran. Not the young boy full of life that he remembered from before he went to the Night’s watch. But the grim man with fathomless eyes, a stranger that he didn’t know. Not even the Bran that he said goodbye to when he was lying quiet as death in his bed felt as immovable as the man before him now. His large hands were lying on the arms of his chair, unmoving. And his face was cold as stone.

 

“Was it right, you ask? Do you think that the Gods will answer?”

 

“How are you here, Bran?”

 

“I told you before, I am not Bran, I am the Three Eyed Raven. And the weirwoods are mine to travel.”

 

“The Three Eyed Raven. I don’t know what that means. Are you a God now?”

 

“Perhaps. But I was a man once. A bastard, much like you. With blood much like yours.  My name was Brynden Rivers.“

 

“Lord Bloodraven…A thousand eyes and one…”

 

“But how? Where is Bran?”

 

“He is here too.”

 

“What have you done with him?!”

 

“Oohh, I did to him what he did to Hodor. Remember the poor giant Hodor? Your brother Bran made him into the simpleton you knew.  But he was Walder once. He could talk and laugh then. Your mother Lyanna’s friend. Before your brother, cousin, Bran got to him.“

 

“Ironic, how things turn around. Hodor would hide into a deep corner of his mind while Bran used him to walk around. It is Bran’s turn now to reap what he sowed.”

 

“And, no, you can’t help him. Nobody can now. He will die with me soon enough. “

 

“Why? What did  he do to you? Why have you done this?”

 

“Bran had something that I needed. A body, and a mind to house mine. “

 

“ You ask why. I swore a vow once. No, not to the Gods. I swore it to myself. That as the Targaryens cast me out, so I will cast them down.  Their dynasty, that **_I_ ** had kept standing, **_I_ ** will make crumble. Their legacy would die before I do.”

 

“And so, here we are, Jon Snow.  The last male descendent of that accursed line. But me. Or should I call you ‘Aegon Targaryen’?”

 

“I am Jon Snow.  I do not want that name, any more than I wanted the crown that goes with it. You are the King now, that name doesn’t matter anymore.“

 

“Oh, but it matters. That is why we are where we are. Though you still know nothing, Jon Snow”.

 

Jon looked at this being, in the cold eyes on the frozen face of Bran.  There was no lie in them, nor pity.

 

“I can see what you are thinking. Why would I lie? Neither of us have anything to gain anymore.“

 

“Truth now, let us speak truths for a while. One last time. Isn’t that what you wanted?“

 

“I have been following your path since before you were born, Jon Snow. A bastard boy, so much like me. Yearning to live for honor and loyalty, yet craving the love of his family. Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Betrayed by his brothers, killed, and yet risen to live another life, a gift by that Lord of Light who favored you so. As the Old Gods favored me for their own purposes and kept me alive.”

 

“And then I watched you fall in love with Daenerys. The Mother of Dragons. Beautiful and strong. She reminded me of my own love, who I lost. “

 

“So many similarities. And so I prepared for a hard fight against a worthy enemy. There was even a flicker of doubt in my victory, that night on the ship, when you finally went to her.”

 

“But you were so _disappointing_ in the end. You were not me.”

 

“I always knew who I was and what I wanted. I loved and hated without regret and without remorse. In the end, you were so different than me.   _So much weaker_.  Because of your shame of who you were. The shame of what you dreamed of. Your shame at the thought of having your precious honor questioned. Your shame of loving a woman that loved you back. “

 

“And in the end, it was you, as much as me, that brought me my victory. “

 

“But it was fitting, in a way, I thought. And I knew then, as I watched you. The only fitting death for House Targaryen would be if one of you killed the other. Because that is what House Targaryen is, and always has been—dragons killing dragons. Yes, I thought, the Targaryens had to bring each other down, nobody else would do. “

 

“And so, I watched you. To see which of you I could turn on the other. “

 

“Time was not on my side this once. But you did not disappoint, Aegon Targaryen. No matter how you fought it, the Targaryen blood in you could not be denied. “

 

Jon knew what he was saying, the deep desire that stirred in him whenever he even glimpsed _her_ , a dragon flame that could not be extinguished no matter how he tried.

 

“And no, boy, I do not mean your lust for your aunt, that is not what marks your blood. She is not your sister. And you are not an unlettered wildling stealing a woman.”

 

“No, the true Targaryen trait, one that I’ve experienced so well---  blood turning against blood. I have shed a fair share myself, because I was a dragon once too. No other House would rip itself apart with such relish, no other blood would spit on its own with such venom.”

 

“It is ironic, isn’t it, that by trying so hard to be a Stark, you ended up choosing the Targaryen way?”

 

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Isn’t this one of the honorable Ned Stark’s sayings?”

 

“And so, when you could have been untouchable together, you turned against your dragon mate. And there was no wolf pack left for you, because in the end, you were not one of them either. “

 

“You stood aside and let them hunt her, as a wolf pack does. Have you seen wolf packs hunt, boy? Every wolf has a role, and together they can bring a much larger animal down. A dragon too perhaps, if it was injured and had lost its fire.“

 

“You are twisting the truth! I loved her, I defended her!”

 

“”She is not one of us”, isn’t that what Arya said? And you didn’t say anything. Or perhaps you thought that telling them your secret was defending her?”

 

“I didn’t know that Sansa would betray me! She swore an oath before the Gods, before the heart tree. You were there!”

 

“And yet Daenerys told you that, but you didn’t want to listen, you didn’t want to believe her. But that was not the beginning of the hunt, no. “

 

 “A wolf pack trails the prey for days, looking for weaknesses, before the hunt even starts.  A pack of wolves hunts a single prey, did you know that? The wolves would first isolate their target, push them into an unfavorable terrain, force them to stumble, lose their ground.  And wolves do not dispatch their prey quickly, it takes a long time to succumb. Blow by blow. Once their prey is isolated, the wolves know that they have won. And the hunt begins in earnest.”

 

“I watched you for a long time.  I knew who my prey was going to be the moment you left Daenerys undefended with all the North against her. I watched you tell the lie that started the hunt. “

 

“I did not lie!”

 

“Ahh, yes, but you didn’t tell the truth either, did you?  It was you who said once: “when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies." I listened then, as I always do. “

 

 “It was easy to forego your honor before Cersei, who had none.  And yet when your honor was questioned by the people who mattered to you, you did tell a lie. “I had a choice: keep my crown or protect the North” --- wasn’t this what you told the Northern Lords?”

 

“You let all of them believe that Daenerys forced you to bend the knee for her help. Yet you didn’t mention that you bent the knee **_after_** she had _already_ pledged to help the North regardless. With no conditions, and no demands.“

 

Jon knew that he had done that. But what could he have said? If he had admitted he had bent the knee without force, the Lords would have been even more unruly, and he had needed them united for the fight. He hadn’t even thought about what that would mean for later.  He couldn’t even hope there would be a “later” then.

 

“I did not have a choice. I needed them united; what else could I have said at that moment…” And yet, even as he said it, Jon knew that that was a lie. 

 

“Ah, so it was one of the “better lies”.  Better for you of course, not for Daenerys. By protecting yourself and your honor to the North, you left them convinced that she was indeed the foreign conqueror they always thought her to be. “

 

“And when your sister Sansa questioned you, you again said nothing. Because you were ashamed to admit your love, lest it sullied your precious honor.”

 

“You could have told them why you bent the knee to her. You did not mention that she lost a dragon to save you?  Even after you told her that you are a King and didn’t need permission? Not even to your sisters. “

 

Jon couldn’t help but cringe. The memory of his arrogant self, sure in his righteousness and purpose, was bitter on his tongue. In his mind Viserion fell once more in a river of fire and blood and he couldn’t help but shake his head to stop the memory sweeping over him. Just one more of his ghosts.

 

“You even let them use her dragon’s death against her.  It was her they blamed for why the Night King had a dragon to use against them.“

 

That was another bitter truth that Jon couldn’t deny. He had wanted to bury that memory of Viserion, the memory of his failure, to not dredge it up, as he saw how Viserion’s death devastated _Dany_ . He hadn’t wanted to hurt _her_ more.  But instead what he had done was he’d left her to fend for herself, exposed.

 

“And so it began then.”

 

“The first swipe in the hunt. A pack of wolves against a dragon.“

 

“The dragon could have turned the wolves to ash in an instant, but then you were one of the pack. And Daenerys loved you. I knew it when she lost her dragon, her _son,_ for you, and did not even blame you. “

 

“I was sure then she wouldn’t turn on you.  Still, I would have been remiss not to try. I made sure you learned about your parentage in the worst moment possible. And I made sure to be there to haunt her dreams. There were so many things to use! The bloody history of our House, the stories her brother Viserys told her. His cruelty towards her. Her own fears, the memories  of the Usurper knives that had haunted her childhood, of running from place to place, never to feel at home or welcome. Such an endless loop. It was so easy. She was getting weaker, less able to resist me. “

 

“Do you know what I did during the battle for the Dawn? I watched you both. I wanted to see if she would hesitate and leave you to your fate. It would have been so easy for her. Just to hesitate for a second. You stood between her and her life-long goal.  You never fought for it, and yet, in the eyes of others, you would have been the “rightful heir”. Because you were born a son, instead of the daughter Rhaegar wanted, ironically. “

 

“And so I watched. I watched her save you, she risked her life again to save yours. I knew then. She would never turn on you; this was not who she was. She may burn the world for you, but I wouldn’t be able to sway her to let you die, let alone kill you.”

 

“And so that left you. And you, you were another matter. Because you always loved your precious _honor_ _and duty_ more than anything. “

 

“And so I left it to you. You had to choose it.”

 

“I did **_not_ ** choose it! I would have never chosen to end her life!”

 

“No? I told you then, under the heart tree in Winterfell: “It is your choice.””

 

“Did you think I was asking  you to choose whether to keep the secret hidden? Yet  didn’t you realize that I had _already_ told Sam _your_ secret? Without regard for _your choice_?”

 

“No, I wanted you to choose which way Daenerys’ fate would go, I wanted you to choose between honor and her life. And you chose the dead honor of the dead Lord Eddard Stark over the life of the woman that loved you.”

 

“I would have told the secret to Sansa and Arya anyway. I could have told Tyrion. But I wanted you to do it. I wanted you to give Daenerys to the wolves”.

 

“Power. Secrets are power, boy. Revealed at the right moment, they can change the fate of many. Even your father Ned Stark knew. That is why he kept the secret for so long. Even from his own family. Because it was deadly.  Because even he knew better than you, and he chose your life over his honor. “

 

“Once your secret was out, it was almost over. It was only a matter of time, and not much of it,  when the people would pit one of the last two Targaryens against the other. A new Dance of Dragons. You may not have known your history, boy, but it  was something Lord Varys knew well. He did his part too, in the end.”

 

Jon remembered Lord Varys’ death. He had died because of this secret too.

 

“Ah, yes, I saw you there, boy. Your look of judgement. I recognized it immediately, so often has it been leveled at me when I only did what was necessary to save their own pitiful lives. Haven’t you executed traitors for much less?”

 

“I was sure then, when I watched you.  My plan _would_ work. How quick you were to judge her. How quick you were to think her cruel. Did you know, boy, that your champion Lord Varys was trying to poison her? No?”

 

“You hope I am lying. I told you, only truth now. “

 

“I knew that one way, or the other, Daenerys would be doomed, once the secret of your parentage was out. But I wanted you to be the one who did it. “

 

“Why? Why me? You could have killed her yourself!”

 

“Yes. I could have. But there would be less justice in that. I was an enemy of House Targaryen, I swore a vow that I would bring it to ruin. But I was loyal to it once. I saved their worthless rule again and again. And as gratitude they spit into my loyalty. _They_ turned me into an enemy.  And so I wanted House Targaryen gone the way it lived: with ingratitude,  treachery and deceit. With feigned loyalty while planning the other’s death.”

 

“I wondered how exactly you would kill her. Would you do it the Stark way? You would not stab her in the back, I thought. But you found an even more cowardly way to do it. I congratulate you on that. “

 

“I wanted it to be a merciful death.” It was to himself Jon said that.

 

“Mercy?” The creature’s cold laugh echoed around them.

 

“I think not. I did not intend for you to kill her because it would be merciful.”

 

“No. You were the one she loved most, she trusted most. Even after you betrayed her, she still loved you. No, I wanted her to feel in full what betrayal feels like.   And you gave her a full measure.”

 

“Professing loyalty you killed her with a kiss. A pity nobody but me was there to see it. It would have been remembered through the ages. The Targaryen kiss. “

 

Jon could not move, he could only look at this man, this malevolent God who inhabited Bran’s body. This was in his nightmares, night after night. Perhaps this was all a nightmare. He wanted to scream then, to drown that cruel voice. But it had happened. It had all happened.

 

 

“Let me tell you the final truth, boy. It was me who burned Daenerys’ mind. You were the one that had brought her to her knees, but **_I_ ** made her fall in the gutter. “

 

“It was easy, in the end. When you are the Three Eyed Raven there are a lot of things you can do to a weakened mind, if you care to put in the effort. You can make them see an army of harpies where children run, an enemy soldier in every corner. You can make them do anything and everything. You can make them throw themselves into a fire, you can make them rain fire on everybody else. You can destroy all resistance, until only a shadow of the person remains. “

 

 

“That is what I did to your _Dany._ But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help. Daenerys was my enemy. A worthy enemy. Maybe she deserved better. And in another life, maybe we could have been on the same side. But I chose it, and I won’t hide behind platitudes.”

 

“I am not like you. Yes, in the end what brought her down was what made you so different from me: your shame of who you were, your shame of loving her. My hate and your love were not so different in the end. “

 

The sound Jon made at that was inhuman, strangled.

 

“Would you like to deny it? You are forgetting who I am.  I was there. In the end, even with her mind gone, you took the only live ember left her of what she had been—her love and trust for you. In the end, **_we_ ** took everything from her—her legacy, her hope, her mind, her love, her trust. Her life was the least of these, and easiest to take. “

 

 

A burning hatred. Rage. It was overwhelming him.  For himself, yes, but also the monster that had twisted his life. _Her_ life. And took everything from both of them.

 

“Yes, I see the rage in your eyes. But what can you do, boy? You are weak. _So weak_.“

 

The creature laughed a bitter, mad laugh.

 

“You were _all_ _so_ _weak_. I confess myself disappointed. Small men, that is who you all were. None of you were worth the fight in the end.  It was so _easy_ crushing you all into your own pathetic failures. “

 

“I will die soon. Death by a dragon. Fitting, after all. But _you_ , Jon Snow, Aegon Targaryen, you will linger on. Alone, in darkness and regret.  We both know there are many things worse than death. But there is no torture worse than life when you have nothing to live for. “

 

“The last Targaryen. It is over now.”

 

He was gone now. The creature. For a few moments Jon sat still, frozen to his spot in front of the charred tree.

 

And then he got up.

 

He was going South. And his ghosts were coming with him.

 

___________

 

 

Bloodraven, Kings Landing

 

He was back in the Godswood, in front of the heart tree. It was not a weirwood, but a great oak. It made no matter though, even if it was a young tree, it had served its purpose.

 

_Truths now_. He had won at last, but he felt empty. What he told the boy was true for himself as well. What was there to live for now? Surrounded by small men with their petty concerns. He didn’t even have hate anymore. He was glad it would be over soon.  He had seen Drogon flying south, he was over the Riverlands now. 

 

He wanted  to stay here. Close to the sea, the waters of the Blackwater Rush could be heard.  He looked at the stars, he hadn’t really seen them in a long time. They always reminded him of _her_. He rarely went back to the past to rewatch his own memories, the sweet was too intertwined with the bitterness of loss. And a memory was only a shadow, intangible.  He could never forget her anyway, he didn't need a heart tree to go back. He only needed to close his eyes now, listen to the sound of the sea.  

 

As if conjured by his thoughts, it was _her_ voice that spoke.

 

“It is not over yet. It will never be over.  Don’t you know that by now, my long lost love? The Gods will bring you back into your tree and keep you there for a millennia, until they get what they want. They will do it again and again, if they have to. “

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in the beginning of the chapter, this is the end of me dealing with the dumpster fire that was the show. That was the last time we will see showJon in my writings. Or any of the show abominations of characters. 
> 
> They are, in the immortal words, shadows and dust now.
> 
> Only AUs on book characters from now on. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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